Black Butler AU
by Rahndom
Summary: The whole of Gotham is surprised when one Timothy Drake arises as the sole survivor of the fire that destroyed the House of Drake. But the young man and his handsome butler seem to charm whoever they meet, and the secrets that hide in those deep blue eyes pass unaware to the world in general.
1. Chapter 1

The news had spread like wild fire through the dance halls of Gotham's high society, feeding the gossip-hungry socialites until every single word out of their lips was the miraculous reappearance of the Drake family's heir and subsequent rebuilding of Drake Manor to its former splendor - and hadn't it been such a tragedy? How the once glorious Manor was burnt to the ground with the whole family inside? - While the family's sole survuvung servant, Mr. Pennyworth, made daily trips to the city to buy food and supplies that had not been needed in years.

Young Master Drake's former fiancee, Miss Tamara Fox, had fallen to her knees and cried the most honest tears a woman was capable of as she heard the news, her smile blinding in its beauty, relief and bittersweet happiness shinning in her eyes.

Her childhood friend was alive.

The boy's godfather, a certain Mr. Wilson, returned to the city immediately, wrapping his arms tightly around the child and swearing on everything that was sacred that he would never let the boy out of his sight again.

Young Master Drake had softly patted his godfather's back, face resting on the man's broad shoulder.

The crowd had been moved to tears, enjoying their first glance of the Drake Heir.

Timothy Drake was a beautiful boy with his mother dark hair and pale blue eyes and his father's poise and quick mind, he stood proudly, back straight and head held high as noble after noble greeted him - making no issue of the scar that now kissed his upper lip or the fact that his right eye was now covered with a black velvet eyepatch, lost in the fire, they all whispered, poor beautiful boy -, he shook hands and smiled shyly when old friend's of his parents offered their condolenses and glidded over the dancefloor with Miss Fox in his arms as the situation called.

The gossip mongers, however, couldn't help but notice the silent figure dressed in black from head to toe standing by his side at all times.

"Forgive my rudeness," Timothy would say, cheeks a soft pink. "This is my personal butler, Bruce."

The man bowed low, eyes glinting with hidden delight as he introduced himself, always a protective step behind his Master.

Mr. Wilson frowned, his hand landing on his godson's shoulder to express his concern.

"I thought Alfred was taking care of you, Tim," he said, eyeing the new butler suspiciously.

Timothy smiled at his godfather, his face angelic with the innocence of his expression.

"Poor Alfred is just too old to care for me alone, uncle Slade," he said sadly. "I cannot, in good conscience, burden him with all responsabilities. He has been with my family for so many years. Bruce is my personal aide now, Alfred managed the Manor's staff."

The socialites around them nodded, remembering the aged man and his fragile-looking frame. The well built, much younger new butler would be a perfect protector for the delicate Drake Lord.

Slade sighed.

"Of course, Timothy," he said, caressing the boy's black hair fondly. "You are such a good boy."

"Do not worry, Mr. Wilson," Bruce said with an enigmatic smile, hands behind his back. "I am a faithful servant of the House of Drake. My utmost priority is my Young Master's happiness."

Both, butler and master shared a secretive smile, eyes locked with eachother's.

The game was on.


	2. Chapter 2

Alfred forces his horse to ride faster, rushing through the fields and scorched grounds that once led to the Manor. His old heart beating violently against his chest as he is finally able to see the building rising proudly in the horizon.

He hadn't been able to believe the rumors of young Master Timothy's return when he first heard them.

He had seen the fire, the Manor fall and crack and disappear among the flames, the scent of burnt flesh and blood and death spreading in the air until there was no oxygen to breathe that did not leave that telltale metallic after taste on the back of his throat.

The thought that his sweet Young Master had been able to survive the wreckage was ludicrous. The boy was too frail, too delicate to be able to survive such savagery.

The old man's heart stops inside his chest, however, as he finally reaches the Manor - a perfect replica, down to the cracks in the brickwork and stains on the marble staircase - and sees the tall, broad man regally opening the door for him, face expressionless, back straight.

"Welcome to Drake Manor, Mr. Pennyworth, we've been expecting you," he greets, his voice a throaty purr that, Alfred thinks, must make him quite popular with the ladies. "Young Master Timothy is in the reading room. Please, allow me to escort you."

Alfred nods; mouth tightening as the young man starts walking inside the Manor, a soft scowl on his face that counteracts his sensual voice.

The old Englishman is not sure if this man can be a proper caretaker for Young Master Timothy - if the lord he is about to meet is his Young Master Timothy at all - and whether he will be forced into de displeasing duty of removing this mysterious gentleman from the Manor.

The boy sitting in Master Jack's cream-colored Berger is definitely not the same boy that used to quietly sit by his side in the kitchen, intelligent eyes examining each and every one of his movements as he baked sweets for the family, shyly tugging at his sleeves whenever he wanted to ask questions.

Not this broken boy with the black and blue bruises covering most of his face and the bandaged arms that shakily holds the quill as he tries to write, a wince of pain whenever his elbow touches the mahogany desk in front of him.

"Young Master," the young butler calls. "Mr. Pennyworth is here."

Alfred feels his heart constrict when young Master Timothy closes his only visible eye, a soft sight leaving his dry, broken lips before he places the quill neatly on the inkwell and grasps for his cane.

What happens next, Alfred will not be able to describe in words.

Because Young Master Timothy suddenly seems to shift and coil before his very eyes, his spine instantly straightening as he stands and his face loses the insecurity and ache that marked it to turn regal and beautiful, his steps are confident and steady as he makes his way towards the old Englishman, his smile reserved and dazzling at the same time.

"It is good to see you in such a good health, Alfred," he says, his voice clear, strong, yet still a hint nervous, soft. "I have missed you."

Alfred feels a small smile tug his lips, his right hand instantly flying to rest on his chest as he bows.

"Likewise, Young Master Timothy," he says reverently. "I am gratified to see you returned home."

Young Master Timothy's cheeks color gently and Alfred cannot hold the pride bursting inside of him at the sight.

The rightful Master of the House has returned.

He will serve him as he did his parents.

…

Jason is laying against the sand, feeling how his blood spreads around him and is sucked immediately into the desert.

It is over and he knows it.

He is going to die, fighting a war he did not start, fighting for a county that couldn't care less about him.

He sighs, closing his eyes against the scorching sunlight.

"You don't want to die," a voice whispers from above and a mercifully cool shadow falls over him, freezing cold fingers caressing his forehead. "Don't you?"

He opens his eyes weakly, squinting as he can see two figures leaning over him; the smaller one is caressing his skin with the wonderfully cool hands while the other looms protectively over them both.

"He is dying rather quickly, Young Master," the taller man says, his voice rumbling through the air, his displeasure evident.

"If I want him to live you will make it so," the smaller form hisses, his only visible eye narrowed. "Are we clear?"

Jason closes his eyes, feeling their weight pulling him downwards. He grows calm and scared at the same time, in an indescribable combination of adrenaline and cold that makes his head swoon.

"I want to live," he manages to whisper, knowing there is a tear rolling down his cheek.

The smaller figure laughs.

"You heard him, Bruce," he says, his small, cool hands playing with his blood matted hair.

The bigger man laughs, kneeling by his side.

"Are you ready to pay the price for this man, Young Master? A life is a lot of work," he purrs, allowing his nose to nuzzle the smaller figure's dark hair.

The teen looks at the man, an eyebrow raised elegantly.

Jason loses consciousness before he can hear the soft reply.

….

Dick huddles in a corner, hiding his head between his knees and his hands fisted tightly on his greasy black hair as he tries to stop his body from trembling.

Every inch of his skin seems to be on fire, the multiple gashes and cuts on his back are stinging, hot… Infected.

The fingernails on his left hand are growing, soon they will be back to the way they were before he was sold to Bedlam - and he can't blame the people at the circus, he didn't have any parents and no means to produce funds, they needed to eat after all - but the doctors have tortured him for ten years, the sick smell of cleaning alcohol and ammonia clings to his yellowish skin and he wants to go home so very much, even if he doesn't know where home is any longer, he is sure Bedlam is not it.

A low whine leaves his throat as he hears Dr. Fischetti enter the room, the soles of his shoes clacking against the cold stone floor.

"Are you sure you won't wait for the subject to be cleaned? The smell is overpowering," the good doctor asks and Dick can distinctly hear softer, almost silent footsteps following the doctor's, pace calm and relaxed.

"I do not care about the smell, Doctor," a soft, melodious voice replies, forcing Dick's eyes to open and to peek through his bony knees.

"Please, Young Master, this is a dangerous place for you," the lord's butler urges, following his master.

A musical laugh is his reply.

"I have you to protect me, Bruce," the lord grins. "Plus the Last Flying Grayson would never hurt me."

The words force Dick's head to snap up, his yellowish eyes wide. In front of him, the butler is approaching him, thick, strong fingers gently pulling his lower eyelid down, caressing his sallow cheekbone and neck.

Dick is shocked to realize the touch does not scorch his skin as the doctor's does; it doesn't make him feel like a wild animal under the continuous scrutiny.

He shivers.

"Liver failure," the butler mutters, dark blue eyes piercing. "This man is dying, young Master."

The lord smiles, his face becoming tenderly angelic.

"We cannot allow that then, can we, Bruce?" he says, tilting his head to the side.

"Yes, my lord," Bruce replies.

Dick's eyes widen.

In that smile, in that pale blue eye, he can see the same little boy that had melted contentedly in his arms and shyly kissed his cheeks, wishing him good luck on what would become his last performance.

The night his parents pummeled to their deaths.

"T-timmy?" he asks, hesitantly, doing his best to prevent his hands from shaking as the boy, now a young man, approaches him.

"Hello, Dick," he whispers, smile widening lightly. "Let's go home, okay?"

Dick cries then, he is not ashamed to admit, skeleton thin hand holding onto the extensive pants leg.

Tim's fingers caressing his hair and, for once in his life, Dick feels home.

….

When Jason is finally steady enough to walk, he is taken to the imposing Drake Manor and introduced to the rest of the household staff by the massive butler, Bruce.

"Alfred will be your direct superior," Bruce explains, a hand firmly placed on his shoulder. "He is the one in charge of the smooth running of the Manor."

An old Englishman with a severe face nods at him, eyes guarded.

"This is Cassandra, the maid," Bruce continues, signaling for a young woman to approach. She's a pretty girl with obvious Asian descent.

She nods to him through her thick black-rimmed glasses, gently cradling her bandaged hand.

"What happened to you?" he asks, frowning.

Cassandra flushes, her eyes falling to her shoes in obvious embarrassment.

Bruce chuckles.

"She's a little clumsy," he explains. "Had a little disagreement with the silverware."

Jason huffs wondering why would they hire a maid that can clearly not do her job.

"And this is Richard," Bruce continues, still smiling. "Our gardener."

The young man who approaches him has the sunniest smile Jason has ever seen. He reaches out with strong fingers and shakes his hand enthusiastically.

"Please call me Dick!" he beams. "Welcome home, Jay! You'll love it here!"

Jason raises an eyebrow, and is about to tell them all that no, this is not his home, he's just here because Bruce saved his life and their delicate young lord offered him a job, but the same whispery chuckle reaches them all and the attention of the whole household is directed from him to the teen making his way towards the door, a small smile on his lips.

"Welcome to my home, Jason," Lord Drake greets, slowly walking towards him. "I hope you enjoy your stay."

He opens his mouth to tell the brat that he will only stay until he is strong enough to return to the front, but Bruce's hand tightens on his shoulder and, by his side, he can see Dick's, Cassandra's and Alfred's eyes fill with the blind devotion only found in those facing what they consider their god and it chills him to the bone to see such reaction.

The boy is no god.

He doesn't deserve such adoration…

"You will learn to feel the same," Bruce whispers on his ear, his hot tongue licking the shell sensuously, branding his skin. "You are his now, forever."

Jason knows he should protest. He is no one's but his own, he is a soldier and not about to play house for a kid's whims.

But there is something making its way inside his head and Young Lord Drake saved him, brought him home and gave him a new chance.

He owes his life… his soul to this wonderful human being.

This angel.

He smiles.

"I'm sure I will, Young Master," he says, bowing before his master, his owner.

His God.


	3. Chapter 3

"What did you do to them?" Timothy asks a few months since the household has finally consolidated as a functioning union, his intelligent eyes narrowed as they look at his servant over his steaming cup of tea.

Bruce smiles his most absent-minded, gentle smile.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Young Master," he says, tilting his head when the boy's glare intensifies.

"Oh, you don't," the young lord says, snapping his fingers and raising an eyebrow when one of his other servants instantly appears on his doorway, eyes wide.

"Did you call me, Young Master?" Cassandra struggles to say, her steps hesitant as she approaches her Young Master.

Tim smiles sweetly at her, his cheeks flushed, his eyes bright.

"Good Morning, Cass," he greets, his hand reaching for her own just as she notices the dishes from breakfast and tries to retrieve them for washing.

The young woman stops her movements when her skin makes contact with her master's, her blood boiling inside of her veins, her eyes clouding with emotions just as her lips can emit a small, voiceless moan of pleasure.

"Y-young… Master," she whispers, her eyes closed in rapture.

Tim feigns innocence.

"Tea was delicious this morning, Cass," he whispers, his thumb caressing the pulse point in her wrist to the point her hands shake too hard for her to take the delicate china cup without breaking it. "Thank you so much."

Tim's eyes are sharp as he sees how his maid's ankles cross, how her lips tremble for a moment before she somehow manages to pull herself together and, wordlessly, she bows to him and disappears with the dishes.

The Lord looks at his Butler then, an eyebrow raised when the older man seems to sigh in satisfaction.

"You feed off them," Timothy accused, rolling his eyes when Bruce simply smiled benignly. "You feed off their need."

"As I explained when I entered your service, Young Master, I am not like other demons that will patiently await the completion of their contracts before consuming their bonded's souls," the other man said. "I need to feed in order to properly function as the servant you need. And the fact that the lust they feel for you only serves to chain them further in your command is an added bonus for your plans, am I wrong?"

Frigid blue eyes locked with pale, dead ones.

Bruce instantly caught the letter opened his master threw at him with dexterous fingers.

"Don't influence them without consulting me first, Bruce," the teen said as he stood to leave his study. "That's an order."

The older man bowed then.

"Yes, my Lord," he promised, his eyes glinting preternaturally.

The demon felt, nonetheless, a shiver run down his spine as his merciless master abandoned him in the room, and he knew, deep inside of him, that his Young Master would continue to feed him despite his apparent reservations against such manipulation of his other, human servants.

He watched as Richard curled on the floor after a tiring day in the gardens, his face shyly pressed against his Young Master's knee, his bare toes curling and uncurling in the grass as the young noble ran his fingers through his hair, pulling soft moans and groans from his elder, childhood friend.

How his Lord Drake would occasionally stare at his hidden place in the shadows of the Manor as he allowed Jason to run his hands over his chest, carefully plucking at the Young Master's nipples until they were hard and ready, how he allowed the Cook's tongue to play with the delicate shell of his hear, only to reach with one small hand towards the man's cheek and whisper a soft: "Come." In his ear.

Lord Timothy Drake knew that his butler needed feeding.

Was feeding him the emotions, the bare, lustful need of his other servants.

Yet, the message was very clear.

"You have yet to earn the right to my body, Bruce," he could see written in his Lord's eyes.

Foolish human boy, he thought, to believe a demon as ancient as Bruce would be swayed by something as ridiculous as human envy. He didn't care who the Young Master shared his body with, as long as those feelings were around to feed him.

He did not feel jealous.

Resting back in his bed, fingers beckoning Dick between his thighs playfully in ways that make the other young man eagerly crawl to him, Tim grins a devious little smile.

When he signed the contract with the Demon that was now his servant, he had been careful, he had learnt of those that came before him.

And one day, his Bruce demon would learn what it meant to be residing in a human body, with a human heart.

But for now, he will continue to play them all, to tie them all to him and his indomitable will.

He needs them for his revenge.

He will survive this dance with the devil and come out on top with the head of the one who took his mother and father from him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dick is trimming the hedges in the garden when he sees movement in the master bedroom. And he's no fool so he instantly leaves the sheers and dashes towards the ornate window, doing his best not to make a sound as he manages to peek into the room.

And yes, a part of him still feels guilty as he thinks he should share this moment with the rest of the household, that Cass and Jason might find as much pleasure as he does in such routine... But another, more selfish, more child-like part of him wants to keep this morning indulgence to himself, to feast on the sight and the sounds alone and treasure each single second on his own.

Because Mr. Wayne is gently rousing the Young Master from his bed, his massive hands dwarfing the teen's petite frame as he gently pulls the button's of the Young Master's sleeping gown one by one, his calloused knuckles caressing the milky white skin of his chest in a way that looks to the casual observer like an innocent consequence of their closeness, the obligatory contact between a Master and his servant.

But Dick knows those fingers are far from innocent, the way they brush over the Young Master's pink nipples - Dick knows from experience how sensitive they are, how small and soft and sweet like the most delicious of treats, - and the malicious glint in Mr. Wayne's eyes makes a shudder go through the young gardener's spine when his Young Master Timothy's cheeks color lightly.

"Now, Bruce?" the teen asks with steel and ice and sadistic amusement in his voice.

The butler smirks at him, all teeth and charm and sin.

"I don't know what you are talking about, young Master," he whispers, his voice thick and throaty. "I am merely making sure you are presentable for today's meeting with Lord Slade."

From the window, Dick scowls. The Drake household does not like Lord Slade and the way he eyes the Young Master, the way his lust seems to pour out of him and cloy the air around them.

Young Master Timothy leans on his back on the bed, his eyes half-lidded and his legs slightly spread in a way that makes Dick's mouth water as Mr. Wayne runs his palms up and down his Master's thighs, slowly sliding his dark stockings over his knees and nosing the boy's ankles and the sole of his feet, then back on to rest his cheek on his slender thigh, just millimetres away from a small, angry bruise that soiled Tim's perfection for all to see.

The same bruise he had planted there the night before in a fit of passion and possesiveness and devotion towards his wonderful Young Master.

Just thinking about it makes his erection dig painfully against his pants, the tip leak as he remembers Tim's smell, his warmth, his beauty as he came undone under his eager hands.

Bruce's smile turns feral.

"Were you attacked by a wild cat, Young Master?" he mocks, his tongue sneaking out to taste both bruise and skin, eyes closing in delight.

Young Master Timothy's mouth parts in a moan, his hands reaching for his butler's dark hair.

"Why would you..." Tim breaths. "Why would you want to know, Bruce?"

"I am merely curious," the older man says teasingly. "Was it Jason? Cassandra?"

"Dick, actually," the teen moans, his lips now moist, trembling. "He came to me last night, his big cock dripping, his mouth so hungry... How could I possibly refuse?"

Dick moans outloud himself, his hand grasping his cock and stroking it furiously as he tries his best to remain standing, to keep himself from interrupting his Master's intimate routine.

Tim arches his back as Bruce continues to lick at the kissmarks Dick put there, his hands grasping the boy's hips to keep him still.

"He is so hot and so good inside of me, Bruce, a perfect fit," he says, head rocking from side to side. "When he comes inside of me I feel as if I'm going to melt, as if I'm being branded by him and I am solely his and no one else in the world can touch me, can own me like he does."

Dick refuses to close his eyes despite the tremors that are taking over him, he refuses to tear his eyes from the beauty that is his Master's pleasure, he can't allow himself to miss even the smallest of Tim's twitches.

Nor the way Mr. Wayne growls low in his throat, his eyes hungry, nonhuman... Almost demonic.

Young Master Timothy's smile widens.

"What's the matter, Bruce..." he sneers. "Jealous?"

The older butler stops for a moment, his hands so tight against the Young Master's skin that he will surely be bruised in a less pleasurable way, but the teen doesn't seem to mind, the way his eyes are wicked and light, fired with challenge.

Bruce brings their lips together violently, his tongue forcing his entrance and forcing a groan from Tim, making those slender fingers slide from his hair to coil around his shoulders, pulling them impossibly close.

The wet noises the two make should be obscene but they only serve to fuel Dick's lust and he is coming against his clothing, his hand tight against his cock, his teeth sinking so hard against his bottom lip there is a small sliver of blood rolling down his cheek.

He slumps against the window, his forehead dotted with sweat, his eyes unfocused, his breathing ragged, just as Bruce releases their Young Master's pink mouth, giving his lips a final, satisfied lick.

"It would be unsightly of a butler to feel jealousy towards those who share his master's bed, Young Master." he whispers, his voice that same confident grumble.

Young Master Timothy grins.

"Of course," he whispers back, his small hand pushing the other man back so he can sit up on the bed.

They stare at eachother for a moment, silent.

"Go prepare a bath, Bruce," Tim says, his hand waving dismissively. "I won't be smelling like you when I am to meet Godfather."

That unnatural glint sparkles once more in Bruce's eyes as he slicks his hair back and fixes his tie and his coat.

"Yes, My Lord," he whispers as he walks towards the bathroom, his steps prepared, measured, perfect as everything the man does.

Dick watches as Young Master Tim runs a thumb through his bottom lip before giving the pad an experimental lick.

"Not jealous my ass," he says to the empty room. "It's just a matter of time."

Dick can only agree.


End file.
